


oh, how sweet the stars

by klefaeries



Series: knock us down and we'll keep on going [1]
Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Queer Reader, Reader-Insert, Smut, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, canon doesnt make sense at all in this and hes ooc but oh well, pulls out my own personal romantic traumas and throws them @ knock out for free therapy, soft knock out, this was supposed to be nothing but smut but then i added feelings and idk what happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:42:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24887809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klefaeries/pseuds/klefaeries
Summary: Life isn't going so well. All your plans haven't worked out the way you wanted them to. And then one day a talking car kidnaps you, and things start to look up. How strange the universe works indeed.
Relationships: Knock Out/Reader, Knock Out/You
Series: knock us down and we'll keep on going [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1809709
Comments: 9
Kudos: 75





	oh, how sweet the stars

**Author's Note:**

> HAHAHAHAHAHA OK SO. this is. a mess. a hot fucking mess. it's just total self gratification and i don't care.
> 
> been a ho for knock out since like 2015/2016??? and after reading way too much fanfic over the past couple of days i kicked my ass and decided to finally write something for him.
> 
> i know that it's pretty ooc and some stuff probably doesn't make sense. i don't care im just slapping words together and praying it makes a somewhat cohesive plot.

Jasper, Nevada.

The illustrious desert town had certainly not been in any of your plans for your future. Nor had getting denied every single job available in your area for the field that you had studied in. Having your girlfriend of almost two fucking years breaking up with you the day before your anniversary hadn’t been either. 

And now here you are.

Working the front desk of your semi-estranged uncle’s used car dealership slash repair shop slash all-around slightly white trash mess of metal and grease. Doing absolutely nothing pertinent to your college degree. Living on the other side of the country to get away from everyone and everything you had ever known.

Life never really goes the way you want it to. You figure it’s time to accept the facts. 

Even if you are only 24 years old and have your whole life ahead of you. But really, can you be blamed? What use are plans if they never work out? What use is having hopes and dreams if they simply fade away, far out of reach, with no way of you being able to catch them? And what  _ fucking  _ use is it to feel emotions like love if they’re just toyed with and ripped into tiny little shreds and thrown to the ground for a certain  _ someone  _ to then stomp across them like they’re nothing but insects —

“Hey, ___!” 

Your Uncle Joe’s gruff voice jolts you out of thoughts you really should just let go. Your head snaps up, startled, forcing your teeth to unclench as you meet your uncle’s eyes.

“Y-yeah?” you stammer, shaking your head a bit to rid it of the nasty little voices creeping through your brain.

“I’ve been callin’ the desk for fifteen minutes! What the hell are ya doin’?” he jabs a finger at your cell, and sure enough, ten missed calls stare at you accusingly from the screen.

“Ah, shit, sorry,” you mumble, running a hand through your hair. “The, uh, volume was off. I was deep into working on the spreadsheets for this month’s income.” It’s not a total lie. Even though you’re pretty sure the volume  _ is  _ on, you know that you had been looking at spreadsheets for at least an hour before drifting off into the realms of varying degrees of self-pity.

“Leave ‘em for now,” Uncle Joe grunts. “Got a car I need you to take a look at. I’m busy with some repairs and don’t wanna get it all messy.” He gestures to his oil-stained overalls and the black smudges of grease coating his hands. 

You frown. Usually, that’s not a big problem. But then again, you’ve only been in Jasper for two months, and this is the most you’ve ever interacted with your Uncle Joe aside from watching him drunkenly stumble around at family reunions. 

To be honest, you’re just thankful he gave you a job and a place to live, especially when neither of you really know one another.

“Is it a nice car?” you ask hesitantly. Your automotive experience is less to be desired, so you have no idea why he wants you to ‘take a look’ at a car when you can barely tell the difference between a Ford and a Chevy.

(Is there even a difference?)

“Fuckin’ beaut, it is!” Uncle Joe grins, uncharacteristically chipper. “It’s in the back. Found it parked this morning, with a note on the hood saying it was, uh, donated.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Donated?”

He shrugs. “Apparently the old owner was just bored with it and wanted to get rid of it? I dunno, rich folks from Vegas sometimes do stupid shit in tiny towns like Jasper. Which is fine by me, ‘cause I’m bettin’ I can get enough to buy the lot across town if I sell it!” He rubs his hands together gleefully. “I just need ya to make sure there ain’t no dents or anythin’, and that the interior is clean. And enter the make and model into your  _ spreadsheets _ .” He scoffs the last word out, turning tail and exiting the office before you have time to retort.

“My spreadsheets have made your insane way of organization ten times easier,” you mutter irately, giving his back a flash of your middle finger.

You slip your phone in your pocket and make your way to the back of Joe’s Automotive Emporium Extravaganza. Even the name is as ridiculous as the set up. 

It’s just one entire city block of...stuff. Cars and trucks and vans of varying years and conditions lined up like little metal soldiers with gaudy neon price tags stuck to their windshields. Piles of rusted dotting the landscape every now and then, giving the appearance of an apocalyptic junkyard garden. The tiny, rundown office you worked in was at the very front of the property; on the sides were the two garages Uncle Joe used for repairs and whatnot. And at the back was a smaller garage, where he stored new vehicles that were ready to be estimated or looked at by potential buyers.

You aren’t a car person. As long as you have something that lets you get from Point A to Point B, you’re fine. 

But when you see this car, for some reason, all the air leaves your lungs and you just  _ stare _ .

It’s red. Cherry, crimson, scarlet red. The wheels have gold rims, and the grill is a striking silver. The windows are blacked out, and there’s that same splash of gold in the headlights and door handles. A silver design splashes across the side of the car, fading back to cherry red towards the end. The car is sleek and streamlined —even you can tell that this is a vehicle made for speed and sophistication. You have absolutely no clue what make and model it is, but you’ll be damned if you don’t find out. 

Plus, well, you have to in order to enter it into the spreadsheet.

Your phone dings just as you reach a hand out to open the driver’s side. You dig it out of your pocket, glance at the screen, and immediately regret doing so.

The notification is from your ex. 

Because you’re an idiot and made three different fake accounts to follow her. 

It’s a picture of her and another girl—one way cuter than you, of course—grinning at the camera and holding matching rainbow swirled ice cream cones. You don’t have to read the tags to know this is her new girlfriend. The one she was talking to while dating you. The one she wanted to be with so badly that she broke up with you with just a curt text, not even a call.

Your fingers squeeze your phone so hard you want it to break. But it doesn’t. You know that this isn’t healthy; you know that it’s best to delete everything, block her, and move on. 

But you’re an idiot, and despite the rational part of your brain that screams at you to stop being so self-destructive, you just can’t help it.

_ Ah, shit, I’m gonna cry.  _

“Fuck,” you whisper through gritted teeth as you shove your phone back into your pocket, grab onto the car door, and swing yourself into the driver’s side aggressively. Landing in the plush leather seats with a thud, you press your hands to your eyes and groan. “Fuck her, fuck me, fuck  _ everything _ .”

Shuddering, you take a deep breath and force yourself to look around the car’s interior. It smells like fresh leather and something else you can’t quite pinpoint; not grease or oil like your uncle’s garage, but similar. And maybe something like metal or steel during welding? Whatever it is, it’s not unpleasant. 

The interior itself is immaculate. Not a speck of dust to be seen. The dash is spotless and shines like it’s been freshly detailed. Way too many buttons that you have absolutely no clue as to what the functions are gleam proudly. Where the radio should be is a rather large screen that looks big enough to double as a laptop, but it’s probably just some new weird stylistic choice by the company that developed the car. 

In the center of the steering wheel is an odd design. A face of some sort? It’s sharp and angled and resembles a pointy helmet almost. It’s intriguing, and somewhere in the back of your head you swear it’s looking at you.

You don’t dwell on it for very long, distracted by the flawless state of the interior. You realize you didn’t actually inspect the rest of the car’s outside for any blemishes, but right now you’re too preoccupied with admiring just how comfortable the leather seat is. You can’t even imagine how much Uncle Joe could get for a car this impeccable, and you’re guessing it’s some kind of top-of-the-line sports model that’s safer in a garage than on the highway. 

“If I had the money, I’d buy you,” you admit to the car, even though it clearly can’t hear you, and you close your eyes. “And then I’d drive all the way back to the suburbs of Chicago, right into Leah’s garage, and show her just how  _ great  _ I’m doing without her. I’d—”

You stop yourself before you finish your sentence.

You’re being an idiot again.

“I’m never dating again,” you announce loudly, eyes snapping open. “Not men, not women, and no one that identifies as neither. I’m going to be single for the rest of my life, car. Fuck people, and fuck relationships with them. It’s not worth it. I’ll just become the crazy lady that lives at the end of the street with my twenty cats yelling at kids to get off my lawn and telling their parents to vaccinate.”

A fire burns in your chest. You whip out your phone, pull up the various social media apps you have, and one-by-one delete your information from them entirely. There’s no sickening lump in your throat as you watch the app icons disappear into the technological void of the cloud. There’s no desire to vomit profusely as you scroll through your contacts list and find Leah’s name, still cushioned between two pink heart emojis, and hit the BLOCK function. 

There is nothing but a deep satisfaction as you at last press down on DELETE, and Leah is gone. 

“Fuck yeah,” you whisper to yourself, leaning back against the seat and pumping one fist in the air. “I’m unstoppable, bitches. A goddess. I don’t need anyone in my life but me, myself, and I.”

“Oh? What about someone like  _ me _ ?”

“WHAT THE FUCK?!”

You scream when the unknown voice speaks to you. It sounds like it’s coming from inside the car, and when you frantically look around for the source of it, you find no one else but you. 

And then suddenly the seatbelt zips across your chest and clicks into place. The engine revs to life all on its own even though there’s no keys in the ignition.

Because there’s no ignition in the first place.

The voice speaks again, still coming from all around the car like a surround system. You realize the screen has now lit up, and with every word there’s a bunch of squiggles moving like a voice recording. “How about I take you for a little test drive, doll?” 

The voice is...hot.

It’s suave, silken, and sexy. Deep and distinguished. You’re 99% certain it’s male, but you’re not one to push gender stereotypes onto anybody. Especially a car.

“A car is talking to me,” you breathe in disbelief, staring at the screen with wide eyes. “A  _ car  _ is  _ talking  _ to me.”

“Oh, sweetspark, I’m  _ so  _ much more than a car,” the car purrs, and you feel the rumble through your entire body. 

And then the car begins to move. Tires squeal on pavement as it suddenly zips out of your uncle’s lot and swings onto the street that connects to the highway. You shriek at both the unexpected speed and the fact that a talking car has just kidnapped you, grabbing onto the steering wheel in an attempt to take control.

But your desperate jerking of the wheel does nothing. It remains stubborn and still, and the car laughs in a way that is just way too attractive. 

“Trust me,” he (or it, or they, but you’re going to go with ‘he’ for simplicity’s sake) chuckles as he races down the road at a speed way too dangerous for rural driving, “you’re not going to have much luck with that.”

“W-what are you?” you stammer out, now just gripping the steering wheel for dear life as Jasper flies by. “Some kind of government experiment?”

“Absolutely not!” The car sounds genuinely insulted. “I am something you fleshy little organics could never come close to creating. I am a Cybertronian; a Decepticon, to be precise! I suppose the word your species has for me is...an alien.”

“What.”

The terror of being kidnapped by a talking car is now replaced by bewilderment. Because the talking car is apparently an alien. And it’s just...ridiculous. As are the words he used to describe himself. Cybertronian? Decepticon? It sounded like some stupid kids show!

The car growls at your deadpan response. “I don’t always look like this!” he snaps just as he turns onto the highway, and your body jerks right from the force of how fast he’s moving. “This is my alt-form! I assure you, I’m much more impressive when I’m my true self!”

“O-kaaaaay,” you drawl, tugging half-heartedly at the seatbelt. Maybe you passed out at the desk and are in some kind of weird dream-coma attempting to cope with your depressing life. If so, it was even more depressing that the best your subconscious could come up with was...this. “So, Mr. Alien Car, why did you kidnap me?”

“Call me Knock Out,” the car responds as the boring buildings and street lights of Jasper disappear and the arid Nevada desert takes their place. “And ‘kidnap’ is such an ugly term. I prefer to call this...a selective and spontaneous road trip.”

“Okay,  _ Knock Out _ ,” you roll your eyes because even his name is as flashy and arrogant as he looks and sounds. “Why did you bring me on a selective and spontaneous road trip? Wait...if you’re an alien car, why were you even at my uncle’s in the first place? Why the hell was there a note saying that you were a donation?”

It takes a few moments for him to respond. When he does, he sounds somewhat sheepish, yet still maintains an irritatingly pompous tone. “...I was in stasis, and I assume such a note was a simple prank put on by one of your kind. As for why I decided to take you along for a ride…”

Knock Out suddenly turns off of the highway and the sound of sand and gravel crunch beneath his tires as he drives straight into the desert. “You sounded like you needed a distraction. I wanted to interact with a human. It seemed like a win-win situation for me.”   
  
Your heart stops for a second when you realize something. “Oh god. You heard all that, didn’t you?”

“Every word, sweetspark. Exited stasis the moment you got into my interior.”

“Fuck me.”

“Only if you ask nicely,” Knock Out hums, and you resist the urge to punch the voiceline squiggles on the dashboard screen as your face immediately heats up. 

_ I’m going to ignore the fact that a talking alien car just kind of hit on me. _

You fall silent as Knock Out drives. The rational part of you, the part that you’re really good at ignoring, is screaming at you that this is going to end badly. That you’re probably going to be murdered and then your body will be teleported to space for experimentation or something. 

But there’s the other part of you that insists this isn’t even real. That it’s just one weird dream, and when you wake up, there will be no cherry red sportscar with a voice like pure sex parked in your uncle’s lot. It’s the only thing keeping you from going absolute batshit insane about this entire situation.

You have unshakable faith in this latter part of you until Knock Out suddenly screeches to a halt, a least forty-five minutes away from Jasper, and there’s nothing around you but the vast desert and a few redstone rock formations as high as a building.

The seatbelt unclicks and disengages from your body. The door swings up, and Knock Out says, “This is our stop, doll.”

It’s when you step out, wincing at the unforgiving Nevada heat, that you come to the unwanted conclusion that this is very real.

The car...transforms.

The sound of metal and gears shifting fills your ears. You have no words to describe the sight before you. One moment there’s a sportscar, and the next there’s....a robot towering above you. A giant robot, about twenty feet tall, his finish the same cherry red as the car. Parts of his limbs are silver, and his hands end in rather terrifying looking claws that could definitely tear you apart. On either side of his shoulders burns the black insignia that was on the steering wheel. His face is a paler metal that isn’t quite white, with two crimson and utterly inhuman eyes bearing down at you. He is sharp. He is deadly. He exudes a primal power that makes something in you want to fall on your knees and beg, though you’re not sure what you’d be begging for.

You stare at him.

He stares back at you, a rather attractive mouth curved into an expectant smirk as his eyes rake over your diminutive form.

“...you have headlight tiddies,” you say finally, pointing up at his chest area where he did in fact have two headlights embedded on either side of what you assume would be his pecs. If robot aliens followed the same musculature as humans. They probably didn’t, but this was going to be how you coped with the fact that there was a giant fucking alien robot in front of you and you were all alone in the desert with him because you were a fucking idiot.

Obviously, Knock Out was expecting a much different reaction, because he blinks his (kinda sexy, now that you’re looking at them) black-pupil-red-sclera eyes rapidly as his smirk turns into a frown. 

“All  _ this _ ,” he snaps, affronted, as he gestures to the rest of his admittedly impressive metallic form— _ holy shit why is he so hot in a weird way??? _ —with his veritable talon-like hands, “and you choose to focus on  _ that _ ?”

You shrug. “It was the first thing I noticed. I like tiddies. What else can I say?”

“Well, it’s better than you screaming or running for your life,” Knock Out accedes. He suddenly stretches out a clawed hand towards you and you surprise yourself by not flinching. The very tip of one finger pokes you ever so slightly in the cheek, and it feels kind of like being pricked accidentally by a cat claw. Annoying, but not painful. 

“Yep. Squishy.”

“Did you really bring me all the way out here just to assess the qualities of my flesh?” you ask, shifting your feet in the sand and crossing your arms. You do your best to ignore the tingling deep within you. Because no, you are  _ not  _ about to get weirdly horny over a giant alien robot. Nope. Absolutely not.

“Among other things.” Knock Out grins, and it’s a downright devilish sight. He pulls his hand away and leans against the wall of the rock formation, arms crossed over his chest (and the headlight tiddies). “I’m a medic, you see. Always eager to learn new things. And I’ve decided that if I have to be on this Primus-forsaken dirtball of a planet any longer, I might as well get to know the physiology of the native inhabitants.”

A sharp, bitter tang of fear flavors your tongue. You swallow thickly, carefully, skin prickling like pins and needles. “Like...l-like ex...experimenting on humans?”

Knock Out looks taken aback. “Slag, no!” he exclaims, eyes narrowed in distaste. “That’s more of Shockwave’s thing. I’m not the type of mech to get my servos dirty in organic fluids.” He actually shudders. “No, I’m more of an  _ observer _ . Collect data in the field, compile it in the lab, you know. And what better way to do that than to have my own personal human?”

“Your own...personal...human…” You take a long, deep breath, pinching the bridge of your nose. “That just sounds fucking weird, dude.”

Knock Out holds up his hands placatingly. “Okay, yes, I admit that was poor wording. I simply meant...ugh, frag.” He lets out a frustrated huff of air that kind of sounds like an exhaustion vent. “Look. I’m not supposed to be doing this. Interacting with a human, I mean. Lord Megatron would have my helm, and Starscream would have my aft if either of them knew I was here talking to you.”

“That’s a lotta words and names that I don’t know but I sure as hell won’t snitch. I mean, I don’t really have anyone to snitch who would believe me.” You sigh, bringing your thumb to your lip and nervously gnawing at your fingernail. “You  _ did  _ kidnap me, and don’t try to deny it because that’s literally what it was, but...fuck it.” You shrug, and once again ignore the rational part of you, because you are of course an idiot. “My life isn’t really going anywhere. If a giant alien robot wants me to tutor him about humans, then let’s do this shit.”

“Truly?” Knock Out’s tone is laced with astonishment as he stares at you with wide eyes. 

You nod. “Yep. I’m wasting away in Jasper fucking Nevada. Gotta get my jollies when I can. Plus, this kind of stuff only happens in movies, and I think it’s high time I became the main character of my own goddamn story.”

“Good. This is good. I was worried I’d have to kill you if you said no.” He taps his clawed fingers eagerly against the rock formation, mouth curling into a giddy smile that made your heart (and libido) do backflips. And then you comprehend what he just said.

“What.”

“I was merely joking, sweetspark!” Knockout assures you, but the rational part of you (you’ve decided to refer to her as Karen from now on) isn’t entirely sure that he was entirely joking.

As usual, you ignore Karen.

You clear your throat. “Cool. Cool cool cool. So, uh. Can I poke you, since you poked me?” 

He gets a weird expression on his face, kind of like your Uncle Joe when you first told him that you were making a spreadsheet to keep track of everything in his business. A look of panic, aversion, and acceptance all wrapped in one. After a painful thirty seconds of awkward silence, Knock Out nods stiffly. “I suppose fair is fair. Just...watch the finish. You don' t want to know what happened to the last bot that scratched it.”

You ignore the ominous-sounding quip the way you ignore Karen. 

You scoot forward and poke him in the thigh, because that’s where you come up to him. The metal isn’t cool to the touch like you expected, but it’s not hot either. It’s kind of like a heating pad on low, which makes sense, because this is a living organism. Just one made of metal. For a moment, you let yourself marvel that this is actually happening, and you can’t help but admire how amazing it is. You glance up at Knock Out’s face and upon closer inspection, notice that the texture of it seems different than the rest of his body. You resist the urge to ask to poke his face too, even though he originally poked yours, because you have a feeling you’re already walking a thin line just by poking his leg.

“Yep. Metal-y.”

Knock Out smirks at you in response. You’re pretty sure it’s his signature expression. You won’t feed his already obviously big ego by telling him how good he looks while doing it. 

For the first time in a very long time, you feel alive again.

**x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x**

Six months go by in the blink of an eye—or, as you’ve learned from Knock Out, an optic.

It’s strange at first. Undoubtedly so. Knock Out gives you a phone number that shouldn’t work because it has too many digits, but it works anyway, and it’s your primary form of communication. Sometimes he shows up at your house in the middle of the night with no warning, but it’s rare, on account that he claims he’ll be “offlined” if he sneaks off the  _ Nemesis  _ too much. The term ‘offlined’ essentially means killed. Your robot alien vocabulary is always expanding.

The  _ Nemesis _ , you learn, is a giant spaceship full of more alien robots who turn into various vehicles. His fellow Decepticons. Which is an incredibly sketchy name in and of itself, and you’re not so much of an idiot that you fail to realize that Knock Out is probably not a “good guy” if one were to put a label on it.

The clues emerge slowly. His brief mentions of another group of Cybertronians, called Autobots, and how the Decepticons always seem to be at odds with them. How he constantly tells you that he really shouldn’t be interacting with humans, because one scary motherfucker named Megatron, the leader of the Decepticons, isn’t terribly fond of you all. And of course there’s the simple fact that he kidnapped you the first time you two met, which doesn’t really bother you, but it’s still a point in the “probably not a good guy” bucket.

Despite it all, you don’t care. You like Knock Out. And not just in the inexplicable “why the fuck is he so attractive when he’s a giant alien robot that turns into a car” way. You genuinely, sincerely enjoy his company. It helps that he’s not shy about occasional shameless flirting that isn’t creepy, even though sometimes it can be too much for you to handle and you’re afraid of short circuiting.

He’s an ass. He’s arrogant. He’s sly and snobbish and cares more about his appearance than should be necessary. But, even so, you like him. 

One month after meeting him, Knock Out admits that Cybertronians can access the Internet with ease, and that it’s essentially hooked up to their brains (also known as processors). Why he decided to have you as his own personal tutor for the human species when he could just download the entirety of Wikipedia is lost on you. But it’s the fact that he still asks you questions that could easily be answered with a quick search that cements your affection for him. 

Deep down, you know why. Knock Out makes you feel useful. He makes you feel needed. It’s something you haven’t felt in a very long time. Plus, he’s as petty as you can be. It didn’t take long for him to wheedle out the details of your almost two year relationship with Leah and why things ended the way they did. It didn’t hurt as much as it could have, which was a good sign.

Not even a day later, he sent you a screenshot of her main social media account. Every picture that had ever been uploaded had been replaced with an image of a depressurized blobfish. Every post, no matter how long or short, had been changed to the phrase “My spark should be drowning in the Pit.” Which, in Cybertronian lingo, translated to “I should be burning in hell.”

So, yeah. You like Knock Out. It feels good to have a friend. Even if said friend is a giant alien robot who can kill you in an instant and who is probably part of some evil robot alien faction who wants to rule the planet.

It’s a relatively quiet night. You stayed later than usual to finish up some more glorious spreadsheets because contrary to your uncle’s belief, they really do work organizing all of his shit. 

Explaining to him that the fancy red car (an Aston Martin, Knock Out had proudly told you, because he wasn’t just an automobile—he was an automobile  _ enthusiast _ ) had been a prank by some dumb teenagers hadn’t made your uncle as upset as you’d worried it would. He was mad, yeah, but got over it the next day when someone from out of town wanted to buy a bunch of cars for every one of their grandchildren that were old enough to drive.

He never asks you where the car went. You never tell him, of course. 

You tell absolutely no one of the cocky and vain twenty-foot tall robot who sends you pictures from around the world of places you’d always wanted to see, though you never get a straight answer as to why he is in Greece one night and Japan the next or what he is even doing there. 

You tell not a soul of how Knock Out literally does homework for you to look over; that he compiles his understanding of not just how the human body works, but human emotions and the various cultures that can be found on your dirtball planet, and he wants you to help him further perception of your species.

It could be all an act to get you to lower your guard, of course. It could be that one day he’ll just up and kidnap you again, only this time it’s for human experimentation (even though he insists that it’s more of Shockwave’s forte, which is yet again another indicator that the people he hangs out with have a skewed moral compass). 

You don’t know why you’re thinking about this so much tonight.  _ Maybe I’m just in a wistful mood,  _ you muse silently to yourself as you at last log off of the computer, spreadsheets saved, and start the process of locking up the office. It’s almost eleven, and all you want to do is pass out. But then a single thought floats across your mind, and instantly your fatigue is gone.

_ Or maybe it’s because I haven’t heard from Knock Out in a week. _

Because you haven’t. How the hell you haven’t realized until now, you don’t know. It’s not like he messages you every day. But in the past, he’s warned you if he needs to go off the grid for a substantial amount of time. You’ve gotten no such warning to explain the strange silence on his end this time around.

You’re worried.

Realistically, you know he’s more than capable of taking care of himself. And you know that it’s not like he’s obligated to tell you every facet of his life. 

But still. You can’t help the cold chill that runs up and down your spine as you drive one of your uncle’s rental cars back to the house he lets you mooch off of him for half the price it’s actually worth. It’s located on the outskirts of Jasper, which you now count as a blessing considering Knock Out’s penchant for showing up unannounced. 

Your drive is silent. You listen to no music, no radio; just the sound of wheels on pavement and your own unsteady breathing. The stars above shine a little too brightly for your own liking. You’re still not used to how clear the sky is in the desert. Somewhere among them is the dying remains of a planet called Cybertron. Knock Out’s home. He’s never told you why it’s dying and why his people chose Earth as their new vacation spot. You suspect the answer will haunt you.

A single street lamp illuminates your illustrious abode. It’s small, and unassuming, and frankly the garage is in better condition than the house itself. Your uncle once used it as another repair shop of sorts—really, how many does one man need?—and the ceiling is much higher than the actual house.

When you punch the button for the garage door to open, you slam your foot on the breaks so fast your head nearly smacks into the steering wheel.

Knock Out is in your garage.

He’s crouched down on the floor, huddled into a ball of alien metal, helm ducked so that he doesn’t hit the ceiling. Weird purple fluid oozes from dozens of cuts and slashes all across his body. In his clawed hands he holds a buffer that you recognize from your uncle’s tool stash, and he’s just staring at it blankly like he doesn’t know what it is. You don’t even think he’s aware of your presence.

Ignoring the fact that Knock Out apparently knows the password to the garage, because it’s not terribly surprising, you stumble out of the car as fast as you can and rush towards him. 

“Knock Out?! What the hell happened to you?!” 

He turns to look at you, but just barely. There is something unreadable in his optics. “Ah.  ___ . I was beginning to wonder when you’d show up.”

In six months Knock Out has never once called you by your name. It’s always been “sweetspark,” or “doll,” or once in a great while just plain old “human.” You knew he knew what your name was, because you were constantly reminding him of it even though you didn’t really mind his nicknames.

So for Knock Out to say your name, and in such a quiet and tired voice, sitting in your garage covered in injuries, you know something is horribly wrong. 

“Are...are you okay?” you ask, shutting the garage door behind you and approaching him slowly, as if the slightest bit of movement will spook him.

Knock Out laughs. It’s hollow, and holds none of the confidence and richness it usually does. “All things considered, I suppose. Can’t say the same for Breakdown.”

You know that name. It’s another Decepticon, and one whom Knock Out talks about more than anyone else. His partner. His friend. The brawn to his brains.

You somehow already know. But still, you ask. “What happened to Breakdown?”

Knock Out’s voice is flat. “He was offlined. By some humans calling themselves  _ MECH _ .” He spits out the last word. “Fleshlings who covet Cybertronian technology. Breakdown and I were on a mission to retrieve a relic of Iacon. We were outnumbered and outmaneuvered.”

You don’t know what a relic of Iacon is, but obviously it was important if searching for it resulted in the death of a Decepticon. “Knock Out, I...I’m so sorry,” you begin to say, but the rest of your words just disappear from your lips. You just don’t know what else to say. 

He grips the buffer tightly in his servos. “I managed to get away with the relic. But it’s worthless . Something that wouldn’t be any use to Megatron at all.” He drops the buffer and it clatters to the garage floor with a loud clang. In the middle of his metallic palm is a small white cylinder, about the same size as your phone, with blue glowing markings etched into its surface. He presses down on it and the sound of shifting metal and gears, like when he transforms into his alt-mode, fills the air. 

You watch with wide eyes as Knock Out shrinks. Twenty or so feet turns into a little less than ten, based on your judgement. He’s only about twice your size now, instead of being a towering colossus. 

“A matter displacer,” Knock Out explains, shoulders drooped and optics downcast. “Meant for stealth missions to get into places others can’t. Which has its uses, of course, but it isn’t what Megatron wanted. I failed him. And I am done.”

He’s still sitting on the ground, even though now he doesn’t have to crouch and duck to avoid getting his head smacked on the ceiling. You ignore the dark stains of Cybertronian blood that pool around him and plant your ass right next to him, reaching to put a hand on his arm but thinking better at the last moment and letting it fall to your side. You say nothing, because you still don’t know what the right thing is to say, but you’re here. You’re not leaving his side.

“I am not a good mech,” Knock Out says after who knows how many minutes of contemplative silence the two of you sit in. “I have done terrible things. I am part of a faction of Cybertronians who wish to steal the resources of other planets rather than help fix our own after what cycles of war has done to it. I played my part, obeyed orders, like the good little soldier I was supposed to be. But you —” He looks down at you now, and something inside your chest clenches painfully with just how deep it feels like he’s staring into you, “You were something I chose for myself. And coming here like the piece of scrap I am has most likely signed your death warrant.”

That should frighten you. But it doesn’t. All that matters is Knock Out right now. “What do you mean?”

“I scrambled my comms,” Knock Out answers, his voice getting fast, as if he’s having a hard time using his words. “And destroyed my tracking signals. But Megatron has Soundwave—he’s always been better at this than I, and  _ Primus _ ,” he ex-vents so loud that the garage shakes, “I shouldn’t have come here. If they manage to get my location, they’ll know about you, and they’ll do things to you that don’t exist even in your nightmares.”

“Don’t focus on that.” You throw caution to the wind and say fuck it, and reach both of your hands down to gently hold one of his servos. It’s covered in the same purple stuff that you’re sitting in and that leaks from gashes all across his body. Knock Out startles at your touch, his helm whipping so quickly that you wonder if Cybertronians can get whiplash as he stares at your hands wrapping around his claws. “You’re hurt, and you just lost someone close to you. Focus on yourself right now, okay? Let me help. I can get you cleaned up, but your injuries—”

“I’m a medic, remember?” Knock Out scoffs, and some of his former grandeur returns in his voice. He’s still staring at your hands. Despite the situation, there’s an odd little seed of happiness blooming in your heart from it. But it quickly withers away when he adds in an utterly despondent tone, “Besides...Breakdown was the one who would help me with this sort of thing.”

You’re not giving up. “Will you let me, though?” you ask gingerly, squeezing his servos in both of your hands and giving him the kindest smile you can muster.

Knock Out looks up at you again, then back down to your hands, and finally to the buffer that he’s abandoned to the cold ground of the garage. He ex-vents again, his entire frame shuddering with the action, and finally nods. “Do your worst, doll,” he says with a little more ounce of his old bravado flavoring his words.

You roll your eyes at him, and the seed of joy is planted once again. “Excuse you. I’ll do my  _ best _ , because I know how much of a diva you are about your appearance, and also because you deserve the best. Now shut up and let me buff you.”

And that’s how you spend the next hour.

Knock Out is incredibly patient, especially since you’ve never done this before. You manage to find enough clean rags to wipe up the purple mess oozing from him (“Energon,” Knock Out tells you when you finally inquire about it. “Our life force. Your equivalent to blood.”) and oil him down with the brands he points out to you as being acceptable. For once, your uncle’s packrat tendencies and refusal to move all of his stuff out of here is a godsend. 

You’re thankful that the Iacon relic or whatever it is made him smaller. You don’t know how well you would have been able to do this if he’d been his full size.

It’s quiet except for the buzzing sound of the buffer moving across his chassis. The gouges are deep, and it will take more than one session of this to fully heal them and the other damage across his finish. But you know that this is something Knock Out needs, especially when his optics flutter shut and he relaxes so completely that his helm lolls to one side. A deep rumble booms within him, like a motor purring, and his servos twitch as you angle up towards his neck area.

_ He’s touch starved,  _ you think to yourself. And you wonder if maybe this Breakdown of his was more than a friend. Or maybe you’re just reading too far into things, because you tend to do that.

Whatever the case is, you’re just glad you can do something to help him.

It’s after midnight when you’re done. You’re exhausted. Moving the buffer across every inch of Knock Out’s body was not as easy as you had thought it was going to be, even in his diminutive state. But he looks better—much better, and not so much like he got put through a garbage disposal. The familiar glossy sheen of his finish can be seen almost everywhere, save for where he’s been wounded the worst. You can’t help but admire your work, and for the first time since meeting him, you start to understand why Knock Out takes so much pride in his appearance.

He really is beautiful.

You want to tell him.

So you do.

“You look…”

Your throat suddenly closes up. Your cheeks grow warm. You cough into one hand, ignoring the fact that it’s stained purple and black from his blood and the oil you slathered onto him. 

Knock Out opens his optics, peering at you with a haughty curiosity. “Yes? Do go on,” he urges you silkenly, mouth grinning so wide it’s a wonder his mouth still fits on his faceplate.

“You look...sexy,” you relent at last, holding up your hands in defeat. “There. I said it. You’re sexy. Especially when I was the one who helped. Are you happy now?”

“Positively elated.” Knock Out reaches out and, with a touch that is lighter than moonlight spilling across the desert sands, smooths a strand of your hair out of your face. Your breath catches when his faceplate is suddenly mere inches away from you, red optics gazing into your eyes like lasers. “...go clean yourself up, sweetspark,” he all but growls, in a guttural low voice that makes you feel things in the pit of your belly. “And when you’re done...come back so I can thank you properly.”

You bolt.

And take the fastest fucking shower known to man.

You’re pretty sure the tub floor is going to be stained purple for the rest of existence, but you could honestly care less. Your soiled clothes get tossed somewhere between the hallway and the bathroom. You yank a clean tank top and a pair of pajama shorts on—not the sexiest attire you own, and you probably read the entire mood wrong when Knock Out spoke to you like he was going to fuck you with just his voice—but it’ll do. You don’t care.

You just want to get back to Knock Out as quick as humanly possible.

When you rush back to the garage, hair still dripping wet and panting with exertion, Knock Out is still in his matter-displaced form. There’s a plush blanket spread across the floor, away from where he had been kind of bleeding out, and you have no idea where he found it or if he even got it from the garage. You suspect he had it in his magical subspace (out of everything you’d learned about Cybertronians, their personal pocket dimensions or however one wanted to describe it as made the least sense to you) for this exact moment. Or maybe not, because again, you could totally be reading too much into this, because you are an idiot, and you really should just start listening to Karen more often when—

“ ___.”

He says your name in that same low growly tone and suddenly he’s right in front of you, one servo around your waist and the other cupping your damp cheek. 

“Y...yeah?” you whisper breathlessly, eyes wide as he pulls you closer to his form, and it’s all you can do to keep yourself from tearing your pants off right here and now.

As an answer, Knock Out kisses you.

You get the answer to the question that’s bothered you since you met: that his faceplate is softer than the rest of him, and his mouth is just as malleable as a pair of human lips. And holy shit, does he know how to kiss. 

He’s gripping your waist so tightly that you hear the tearing of your shorts in his claws. His glossa —you thank all the stars and moons and planets that Knock Out taught you Cybertronian biological terms while you taught him human ones, because thinking about them is turning you on even more —licks across your lips and plunges between them the moment you part your mouth even slightly. It’s not as soft and fleshy as your tongue, but it’s enough that it feels so fucking  _ good _ . The servo on your cheek slides down to your shoulders, then to your chest, and then he’s cupping your right breast through the tight fabric of the tank top. Knock Out squeezes, ever so slightly, while at the same time his glossa dances along your tongue and you let out a wheezing moan that basically translates to “I can’t believe this is really happening.”

The taste of him is indescribable. It’s otherworldly. If stardust and sun rays had a flavor, it would be Knock Out. 

You throw your arms around his neck, thankful he’s not as pointy as you imagined him to be as you press yourself even closer to him. “Ngh…!” you moan into his mouth, practically hanging off of him as he somehow manages to kiss you even harder, even hungrier, massaging and kneading at the supple flesh of your breast in the hardness of his servos. The contrast of sensations is going to drive you crazy.

“I like your tits better than mine,” Knock Out declares as he suddenly breaks away from your mouth, wearing that damnable telltale smirk, and giving said tit a rough squeeze for good measure.

You shudder and whimper. You’ve never done this kind of shit before. Your only relationship was ever with Leah, and she barely even made out with you. 

You’re in heaven. 

Knock Out suddenly ex-vents, and a wave of heat from his systems envelops you. “Can I frag you?” he asks, faceplate resting against your forehead, and it’s an unexpected moment of...tenderness. You’re still horny; he’s still horny; but the fact that he has the courtesy to ask before going any further…

Okay. Yep. You’re wet. 

“Knock Out,” you allow yourself the tenacity to press your hips against his thighs and give them a sharp gyrating grind, “you can frag me into the fucking floor for all I care.”

It’s like flipping a switch. Well, the switch had already been flipped, and now the power was turning on to its fullest.

Your clothes are gone in an instant, shredded to bits of fabric by his sharp claws. You didn’t even bother to wear underwear. You’re standing before Knock Out completely naked, a growing wetness between your thighs, a fiery ache deep within your belly, and your nipples getting harder the longer they’re exposed to the chilly garage air.

You expect to get right on with the fucking—er, fragging—but Knock Out just stares at you. A look of what you can only describe as wonder flashes across his faceplate. “You’re beautiful,” he states, and you flush underneath the intensity and sincerity of it all. Leah had never talked about you like this. _ No one _ has ever talked about you like this.

_ Oh, god, I think I have actual feelings for Knock Out. _

“I-I mean,” you stammer, pushing those thoughts down because there’s no way you’re going to deal with them right now, “not compared to you.”

“But you are,” he insists, and all the ferocity behind his touch is replaced by softness, and he slowly starts to lead you to where the blanket lay spread out. “I have exceptional taste, sweetspark. If I say you’re beautiful, then you’re beautiful.”

You don’t have an argument for that, so you just tilt your head up and kiss him. It’s not as primal as the first kiss, and there’s no tongue x glossa sumo match. Just lips upon lips as Knock Out lays you down onto the floor, body hovering over you, and then his mouth is on your neck. He trails kisses down your throat, to the little dip between your breasts, and his lips ghost the tips of your nipples in an achingly teasing manner. 

And then his mouth goes lower. To your stomach, where his glossa swirls around your navel and you can’t help but giggle at the tickling sensation is sends through your body. To your thighs, where he drags his mouth to the tops, then to the insides, and then to—

“ _ O-Oh _ …!” you moan, hips jerking as his servos come to rest on either side of your waist to hold you into place, because his mouth and glossa are suddenly on your clit and you had  _ no fucking clue  _ it was going to feel like that. You’d touched yourself, of course. Many times. But having someone’s lips kissing your, uh, lower lips and their tongue licking and sucking at your clit was...something else entirely.

The tips of your toes tingle and your fingers twitch as they grip the fabric of the blanket beneath you. “Sh-shit…!” you whimper as Knock Out begins to eat you out with a shockingly practiced ease, and there’s a part of you that wonders how he knows how to do all this with a human. It’s Karen. You tell Karen to shut the fuck up and enjoy it.

His glossa slithers between your folds, and there’s a lewd sucking noise from between your legs as he licks and sucks and  _ fucks  _ you with his mouth. Your skin is on fire. Your hips jerk in his grasp, eyes squeezing shut as you bite down on your lower lip to keep straight up pornographic moans from escaping. The smoothness of his faceplate rubbing against your pussy as he literally devours your insides, the strangeness of having something other than your own fingers and the occasional kitchen utensil because you were too shy to buy a dildo inside of you…

You could get addicted. You had no idea this could feel so good. 

“K-Knock Out,” you stammer when his glossa hits a particularly sensitive spot. His mouth is working against you in earnest now, and he’s starting to make sounds kind of like an engine revving only not as loud and there’s more of a voice behind it. Your eyes snap open and your back arches slightly as a tension deep within your lower body begins to build. It’s a fire, an inferno, threatening to consume your flesh and blood and bones, and you want to let it release, you want it to take over you, you want to—

He stops.

The asshole slips his glossa back into his mouth and raises his helm to look at you, his faceplate gleaming wet with your desire, and he has the audacity to smirk.

“Not yet. You’ll overload when I tell you to, sweetspark.”

You’d punch him if your body wasn’t in such a floaty state and you weren’t so disgustingly horny and ready to do whatever the hell he told you to do.

Knock Out suddenly leans away from you, removing his servos from your waist. Your eyes follow them as they glide to his pelvis area, and it hits you just then that you have no idea if Cybertronians have a dick. It certainly was something you never felt brave enough to ask, and mercifully, for all of his teasing, Knock Out never brought it up.

He presses down on his crotch area, and a small rectangular panel opens up. And out from said panel pops...a dick.

A robot alien dick.

You can’t help but stare.

It’s big, bigger than anything you could buy in a store, and more curved than a human phallus would be. Soft purple lights glow across its silver, ribbed surface, kind of like bioluminescent plankton. He probably wouldn’t appreciate the comparison.

“Are you ready for my spike, sweetspark?” Knock Out purrs, taking it in one of his servos and pumping up and down the length like he was enjoying the way you were staring. He definitely is. You can see the mirth in his optics.

“I think so?” you answer as truthfully as you can, because yeah, you’re ready for a fuck that’s about to ruin you for anything else, but you have no idea if it’ll fit. 

Knock Out is either a mind reader, or is just really good at reading expressions. “I’ll go slow,” he promises softly as he lowers himself down to you, pressing his forehead against yours. “If you tell me to stop, then I will.”

You nod shakily. You trust him. Karen is still saying that you shouldn’t, but you do. You’ve come this far, after all. It would be a shame not to see it through.

“Hold onto my shoulder plates,” he instructs as he grips your waist as gently as possible. You do as he tells you, wrapping your arms around them as best you can despite the awkward bulk, and then—and then—

You feel him pushing against you. You feel him slowly, slowly,  _ slowly  _ push inside. You can’t make a sound as a burning sensation rips through you as Knock Out’s spike enters your cunt. Your mouth hangs open and your fingernails dig into the finish of his shoulder plates, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. He’s big, he’s so big, oh god he’s so fucking big and you know he’s not going to tear you in half but  _ fuck  _ he’s so fucking  _ big…! _

“Sweetspark,” Knock Out groans in a tense, shuddering voice that’s deeper than any other time you’ve heard him speak, “you’re...so... _ soft _ …”

And then you feel pleasure.

You’re stretched to the absolute max. You can’t look down to see how far he’s gone, because you’re clinging to his chassis so tightly, but you somehow know he’s all the way in. It’s incredible. It’s impossible. You feel weightless, like you’re part of a vast nothingness.

“Soft,” Knock Out repeats, his mouth at your ear. “And so fragging  _ warm… _ ”

And then he begins to move.

Slowly. His thrusts are methodic and gradual. A pace he’s set because he clearly doesn’t want to overwhelm you, but no, you want more. You want him to go faster, to go harder, but you can’t speak because it’s hard to do anything at all besides cling to him and whimper and moan unintelligible sentences.

He quickens. It’s less of a thrust and more of a jab. A slam. You lose track of time as Knock Out begins to fuck you in earnest, spike practically rocketing into your core so fast you wonder if it could set a new record. Probably. You doubted anyone else had ever had interspecies sex with an alien robot.

You’re sobbing. Tears run down your face as pleasure blossoms in every synapse of your system, the walls of your pussy stretching and pulling and tightening around his spike. The ribbed texture makes you ache in the most delicious of ways every time he slams into you like a jackhammer, and the tips of his clawed servos begin to dig into the delicate skin of your hips until tiny pinpricks of pain blossom where they’re scratching you. But you don’t mind. You can barely feel it over the complete and utter ecstasy of Knock Out thrusting in and out of you like a madman, his faceplate buried at the crook between your neck and shoulder.

“ ___,” he moans into your flesh, your name sounding like some kind of prayer in the desperately guttural and aroused voice coming out of his mouth. “So good, sweetspark, so good, so soft for me, so warm, so good…~”   
  


“Knock Out!” you manage to get his name out in a trembling, tongue-tied tone that comes from a place very deep inside of you. “Harder! Oh, fuck, yes,  _ more _ !”

He complies. Everything else fades away. It’s just you and Knock Out, and he’s pounding into you, and your skin is on fire again, and the tightness in your belly keeps coiling and winding and threatening to  _ snap  _ and you think that maybe this is going to kill you but at least you’ll die having the absolute best sex in the entire fucking universe.

And then he says it. When you start to see stars, and planets, and entire galaxies, and your body is nothing but one entire receptor for euphoric pleasure, Knock Out bites down on your throat and whispers, “Overload for me, sweetspark.”

You do. You whimper and moan and sob as you let go and ride an orgasm so powerful that the planet itself could explode and you wouldn’t even notice. Your eyesight goes black for a second as your walls shudder and release all of the tight coils buried deep within you. You hear somewhere far away the sound of Knock Out groaning your name and his servos dig into your waist again as something hot and wet just  _ gushes  _ into your cunt, filling you to the brim.

You’re not conscious enough to register him pulling out. When you finally begin to come down from the high of being fucked silly by a Cybertronian, Knock Out has you sprawl across his chassis, and his servos are stroking through your hair. 

The insides of your thighs are sticky with a substance you can only imagine is Cybertronian cum. You ache everywhere. You doubt you’ll be able to walk tomorrow, much less go to work. But that’s a problem for future you, because present you decides to enjoy snuggling up to Knock Out. It really isn’t as uncomfortable as you thought it may be. Certainly better than the floor.

Neither of you say anything. You’re breathing heavily, body occasionally twitching from aftershocks of your release, and Knock Out is utterly silent as he runs his claws through your hair in a gesture that’s so tender you probably would start crying if your mind wasn’t so utterly frazzled from the mindblowing orgasm he’d given you.

“I’m going to see if the Autobots will let me join them,” Knock Out says at last, just before you’re about to drift off in a state between awake and asleep.

“Hm?” you can barely lift your head to look at him, so you just grunt inquisitively.

“I’m no longer a Decepticon. I’m not worthy to be an Autobot. But I won’t hide away to save my own aft when I can do  _ something  _ to fix the messes I’ve made.” You feel him press his lips against your sweaty forehead, and you think he mumbles something else, but you can barely hear. You’re almost completely out.

“Knock Out,” you manage to say before you float off into dreamland, “will you be here when I wake up?”

There’s an uncertain pause, but just for a moment.

“...yes. I will.”

You smile, and let yourself go.

And in the morning, Knock Out is still in the garage, holding you in his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> oh no i set myself up for a sequel didn't i? 
> 
> fuck.
> 
> that wasn't supposed to happen.
> 
> ...we shall see.


End file.
